Fannie Belle Irving

On the day of the funeral, the sun came up and flashed over the grey chill earth, with a spring-like warmth and radiance, and crept through the open windows with a broad glad smile, as though no sorrow darkened the home and hushed the merry voices.

Many times in these three days of crushing sorrow, when heart and hand seemed powerless to act, had Ernestine thought in a vague, wondering way, of her words: "I wonder what Olive is good for, she is no comfort to any one." Why, she herself, shivering and white, clung to her; Bea went to her; Mrs. Dering turned to them all for comfort, but to Olive for help and advice; Huldah came to her for orders; callers with offers of flowers and help saw her, and all said when questioned; "ask Olive, she can tell you;" "where is Olive?" "Olive knows all about it, don't disturb mama;" and so for once, home without Olive, would have known its greatest need.

On the evening of that last day, when all the sorrowful farewells were over, and the grief stricken family had returned to their saddened home; there came a stranger into Canfield, and after inquiring the way, stalked briskly out to the Dering house. All the heavy foliage being gone, Jean saw him coming through the gate, and turned from the window.

"Some one is coming, Olive," and Olive reached the door, just as the stranger gave a vain pull at the muffled bell. He was a strange, odd looking old gentleman, erect as a picket, scrupulously dressed, and looking at her with fierce grey eyes from under the bushiest lashes.

"Is Mrs. Dering in?" he inquired with a tap of his cane.

"Yes, sir, but——,"

"Well, that's all I want to know now, I'll ask the rest after I get in," and emphasizing the words with another sharp tap of his cane, in he walked.

"But, sir, my mother cannot see you to-night," said Olive, somewhat startled, but speaking with decision, and still holding the door open.

"Tut, tut, tut! I haven't come three hundred miles to be turned out into the night. Come, come, young woman, lead the way to where there's a fire and light, then take this card to your mother, and if she won't see me, give me a good comfortable bed, and I'll wait 'till morning for her."

Olive began to feel as though she had little to say in the matter, besides, he stamped his cane and looked at her so fiercely, that she thought he might be an escaped lunatic, and perhaps she had better humor him. So she led the way into the sitting room, poked the fire till it glowed brightly, then the old gentleman sat down, but jerked his head around quickly as the sound of Jean's retiring crutch fell on his ear.

"Ha, hum; come here little girl;" and his voice sharp and rough, softened wonderfully; but Jean only lifted her tear-stained pale little face, for an instant, then vanished; whereupon he pulled out a scarlet silk handkerchief, and blew his nose fiercely, then turned to Olive as if he expected to demolish her instantly with the card in his fingers.

"Here girl, take that to your mother and be quick."

Olive took it and unconsciously dropped her eyes to the name—

"ROGER RIDLEY CONGREVE."

Even the old gentleman started as she looked up, for pale as her face had been before, it was positively ashy now, and her eyes glared at him like a young lioness at bay. Somewhat amazed the old man rose and approached her; but she started back, threw the card at his feet, crying chokingly with a frantic gesture of her hands:

"Go away, go away, don't touch me,—oh, how I hate you!" and vanished through the door as if she had been shot.

"God bless my soul!" cried the astonished man, dropping into his chair and apostrophizing the fire with startled energy. "If I ever saw the like,—where's my snuff-box,—I never did to be sure; streak of insanity, must be attended to; fine eyes, but ferocious young woman; hum, ha!—I'll sit here till somebody comes."

A movement of several persons in the room above, would indicate that the family were gathered there; as indeed they were, sitting around mother, feeling nearer and dearer than ever in their mutual loss, each one drying her eyes slowly, as she talked lovingly of the dead, trying to make them feel as did she, that father was not lost, but just gone home a little sooner than they. Into this peaceful, loving group came Olive, with ashy lips, and excited eyes, and a few minutes later, the old gentleman down stairs, arose from his waiting seat, as the door opened, and a lady came towards him. Just while she crossed the little distance lying between them, he scrutinized her, with almost savage intentness, and his survey ended in a slightly astonished, "humph," as she paused before him, and bent her head slightly, but with due respect for his age.

"Mr. Congreve. Will you be seated, sir?"

"Humph! Well, I suppose I will," and down he sat, with more force than was necessary, perhaps, but then he was excited.

"I'm too late for Robert's funeral, I hear," he said, in a moment, as gruff and short as though she were to blame for the fact, and he was come to deliver a verbal chastisement.

"Yes, sir, a few hours."

"Humph! His death was very sudden."

"Very sudden indeed."

"Humph!"

Very plainly, Mr. Congreve did not know exactly what to say next. He hadn't expected this kind of a widow; his mind had pictured one in bushels of crape, with a drenched, woe-begone face, who would scream when she saw him, fall on his neck, in lieu of his purse, and gasp out dramatically: "Dear, dear Uncle Ridley, now all my troubles are over," after which, he would have to pet her into quietude, when there was nothing, next to walking out of the window in his sleep, that he dreaded more than a crying woman; then he would have to kiss all the children, and so greatly did he object to such an osculatory performance, that after the act he looked as though he had made way with a quart of alum. Now, there was the pleasing, but slightly astonishing fact, that nobody was going to want to kiss him, and this pale, sweet-faced woman, with her quiet eyes and determined mouth was Robert's widow, that he would have to talk to; and it was very evident, that if he had anything to say, she was waiting quietly to hear it.

"You have quite a large family,—madam," he said, hurriedly rushing in to break a pause. "Yes, sir, six daughters."

"Six! Bless my soul,—six girls," and Mr. Congreve hastily took some snuff to settle his nerves. "Astonishing, I declare. Pity they're not boys,—great pity."

"I would not have it otherwise than it is, sir."

"Humph! well, they're your burden, not mine," said the old man, testily, and twisting uneasily in his chair.

"A burden I am happy and grateful to bear, if burden it be," answered the widow, calmly. "I am thankful they are all mine, my comforts and helps at all times."

"One of them is lame, is she?" and as he spoke, the old man's voice softened, as it had done when he called to Jean.

"Yes, sir, my little one, lame from babyhood."

Mr. Congreve resorted to his handkerchief again, and waved its scarlet folds back and forth in much agitation for a few seconds, then, as he put it back in its capacious pocket, and sniffed once or twice, as if in defiance to some internal commotion, Mrs. Dering remembered that he had once had a little lame girl, who died before reaching womanhood.

He was regarding her intently, and now as she lifted her eyes, softened with this sudden remembrance, he bounced out of his chair, and set his cane down sharply on the hearth.

"Elizabeth Dering, you're not the woman I thought you were. You're not like your father, and I'm glad of that. I came here to offer you help, because I know for a certainty that Robert was in trouble, and I see that you are no more pleased to see me, than I was at the prospect of seeing you. That I have been angry with my nephew for many years, you know well enough, but there's no use denying that his sudden death has touched me, and I want to do something for his family. To-night you are in no condition to talk, no more am I; so if you will show me my room I will go to it immediately."

Mrs. Dering arose also, with relief plainly visible in her face, and after finding that he had taken an early supper before leaving the city, excused herself to arrange for his comfort during the night.

Several hours later, when the household had forgotten its grief in slumber, and nothing disturbed the stillness of the night, but an occasional frog, and the lonesome sighing of the wind through the bare trees, two persons found it extremely difficult to sleep. In Mrs. Dering's room the fire lay in dying embers on the hearth, and in a low chair before it, sat the pale mother and widow, with no need now to hide her grief, lest other hearts were made sad, for no one was near but Jean, and she slept soundly, with sorrow lost in the oblivion of dreams. So feeling for the first time, the liberty of tears, that poor, aching heart broke its stern control, and burying her face, the sorrowing woman wept, praying, as the tears rolled down her cheeks, that they might not be shed in bitterness or rebellion, and that her heart, through all its pain, might still feel and know, "what is, is best." When the violence of her grief had expended itself, and she could lift her face to view calmly her loss and new responsibilities, the unvoiced prayer of her heart was: "O God, help me; I cannot work alone; let me know what to do; help me to think and act aright, and strengthen my trembling faith, that whatever may come to me, I can say: 'God knows it is for the best.'"

Even as she prayed, help came to her, for Olive could not sleep, and feeling assured that her mother was awake, had come noiselessly in, and now stood by her.

"Mama, I cannot sleep either; let me stay with you."

"Olive, my child, it is past midnight."

"I know, mama," and as Olive spoke, she pushed a stool to her mother's feet, and sat down, for something in the voice assured her that she was welcome.

"Why couldn't you sleep, dear?"

"Thinking," answered Olive, gravely. "And I wanted to talk to you, mama, when we could be quite alone."

"Yes, dear."

"Will you tell me about Mr. Congreve, please?"

No curiosity prompted the question; that her mother knew; so, looking down into the grave, thoughtful face, she lowered her voice, and began:

"Mr. Congreve took papa when he was left an orphan at eight years old, and raised him, expecting to make him his heir, as he is very wealthy. When Mr. Congreve and my father were boys they were great friends; but in early manhood, had a bitter quarrel that has never been forgiven either side, and they have hated each other fiercely ever since. When Mr. Congreve found that his nephew was in love with his enemy's daughter, he was furious with anger, and my father also objected to the match, but not so bitterly and blind to reason, as his enemy. Your father was threatened, plead with, and sworn at; but while he remained firm to his intention of marrying me, he really loved his fiery uncle, and disliked to come out in open rebellion; but a final move of Mr. Congreve's was more than he could bear. He locked him up. Of course no man of age and reason could stand such an indignity as that, so, making his escape at night, he left without a word of any kind, and has never seen his uncle but once since. A little while after we were married, we received a letter from him, very short and bitter, saying that he could tread the path he had chosen unmolested; that we were no more to him than strangers, and that his new will left his property entire, to a cousin's child, Roger Ridley Congreve, his namesake. He says now, that when he saw papa's death in the paper, that he was touched by it, and that he has come to help us, though I don't see how he knows we need it."

"I do, mama." "You, Olive?"

"Yes, mama." Olive's fingers were interlaced nervously and her eyes were flashing warmly as she lifted them from the low fire to her mother's face. "I know all about it, mama. Do you remember the night I talked with papa in the study about two months ago?"

"Yes."

"Well, he told me a great deal that night about his business, that he never told you, because he said he did not want to worry you with it unless he had to; he had a note of six thousand to meet in sixty days, and he was trying every way to raise it without touching your money in the bank. He said if he could not pay it, the store would go, that the home was ours, and must never go for his debts. Just a few days ago a letter came, and he snatched it so eagerly, that I knew it was very important; it was very short, and when he finished reading it he laid his head down and groaned. He didn't know I was near, and I did not speak then, but that letter has haunted me ever since, and yesterday when you thought I was asleep, I was down at the store, and I found it in his private drawer. O mama, it was from Mr. Congreve, and so short and cruel, oh, so bitterly cruel, and I tore it all to shreds, and burnt it, and never meant to tell you, at least, not for awhile. He refused to loan papa a cent, and said he didn't care if he lost both business and home, and when I read it I believe I could almost have killed him. To-night when he came and gave me his card I threw it in his face, and told him I hated him!"

"Olive! Olive!"

"I did, I did, and I'm glad; I felt as if it would choke me to sleep with him in the house to-night, and I never want to look at him again. I would rather work my fingers off than ever have you take one penny of his money, or let him help us in any way," cried Olive, excitedly, almost forgetting the sleeping household in her energy.

Mrs. Dering put her hand to her head, bewildered with the sudden news, and Olive saw, and comprehended the look of startled trouble that rested on her face.

"We are very poor now, aren't we, mama?"

"Yes, child, yes; indeed I am quite bewildered," exclaimed Mrs. Dering, anxiously. "Did you say sixty days, Olive?"

"Yes, mama, the time is out next Friday."

"Is it possible? What shall we do!"

"Isn't letting it go, the only thing we can do?" asked Olive.

"I suppose so, but really I can hardly think, it all seems so sudden," and truly her sad, troubled face echoed her words.

"I have been thinking about it so long," said Olive, as though relieved to speak her thoughts. "The home is ours, and you have four thousand in the bank. It seems to me a very little for seven people to live on, but we are all strong and well, and can work."

"Yes, all strong and well but Jean," and Mrs. Dering's eyes went wistfully to the little unconscious face resting on the pillow. "She will have to be so neglected in more ways than one, if home is broken up and every one's hands and work belonging to some one else."

"Dear me," cried Olive, reproachfully. "How could I forget her! There's something more to think over, now."

"But you must think no more to-night, dear, nor must I, or we will not be fit for to-morrow's work and thought. Go to bed, and remember, God will not send us more than we can bear; we must only do the best we can and all that is left, He will provide a way for us. Good night, dear."

Next morning after breakfast, Mr. Congreve stood pulling his gloves on and eyeing the six girls from under his fierce, bushy brows, and there was something almost like amusement in the quizzical look as it swept from one face to the other.

Whatever he thought, he put it into no words, but caught up his cane, then stooped down over Jean, lying on the lounge, and whispered something in her ear. It must have been something magical, indeed, for Jean got up, took her shawl and crutch, and walked with him down to the gate, and there the astonished girls, who all rushed to the window, saw them pause, and the old gentleman lifted Jean up on the post, put her shawl up over her head, and then began talking earnestly.

"Did you ever!" cried Kittie, falling back at the amazing sight. "I thought she was afraid of him!"

"She is the only one that he has looked at kindly," said Bea, with some indications of resentment in her voice. "Was he always so fierce and queer, mama?"

"Always," answered Mrs. Dering, who was watching from another window. "He has a kind heart, but a most exceedingly violent temper, which he seems to have under no control.

"If thwarted or vexed, he stops at nothing, but most always repents his rash acts as soon as they are committed, and, sometimes, if the humor so strikes him, there is nothing he will not do as reparation."

Olive, understanding that this little explanation was especially for her, shut her lips tightly, whereupon Kate exclaimed, "You never looked at him when you were introduced, Olive, and if you could have seen the way he frowned and glared at you, you would have shook all over."

"I don't care how he looked, nor how much he frowned. I don't like him, and I wish he was back in Virginia."

"If he isn't stingy as a miser, he'll give us something, and perhaps ask us to visit him," said Ernestine, who looked languid and pale from excessive and violent weeping, and really seemed to be the only one who was not trying to be cheerful for the others' sake.

"I should like to see where papa lived when he was a boy, but I wouldn't care to have Mr. Congreve there," said Bea, who had that morning began being more womanly than usual by relieving mama of coffee-urn duties.

"He's gone!" exclaimed Kittie, from the window. "Now for the secret! What did he say, Jean?"

"I'm not to tell," answered Jean, looking quite excited and rather pale, as she hurried in; then amazed them all again by hiding her face in Mrs. Dering's dress and bursting into tears.

"What ever has he done?" cried Kat, bouncing excitedly out of her chair. "Was he cross?—or perhaps he pinched you or something."

"No, he didn't," said Jean, trembling but smiling through her tears. "He was very good and kind, and didn't look near so cross as he did in here. He said that a great many years ago he had a little girl just like me, and he kissed me, too."

"Did I ever!" cried Kat, quite carried away by curiosity. "And is that all that he said?"

"No, but I can't tell the rest, now, but he's going to bring me some candy and I'll give you all some."

Perhaps it was because Mrs. Dering turned her head away just then, finding control of her face impossible; or because Jean looked so pathetic, as she gave her little promise; at any rate, Ernestine broke into a quick sob, and the next moment they were all crying, while Kittie threw herself on the lounge, and hid her face, as though she never cared to show it again, and Kat followed her example in the rocking-chair.

For several minutes the sound of weeping filled the room, then Mrs. Dering wiped her eyes and tried to steady her voice.

"Children, do you think it would make papa happy to see us all so miserable and wretched?"

Something in the voice hushed the sobs, and caught attention, except from Ernestine, who continued to cry wailingly.

"If papa had gone to Europe, made a great fortune, and built a grand, beautiful home for us all to come to, would we all sit down and cry about it, and say it wasn't right?"

Even Ernestine listened a little at this, and Kittie lifted her drenched face to look in amaze at her mother.

"I don't think we would, but that our happiness would hardly wait for the time 'till we started to join him. Now, instead of going to any country to build us a home, he has gone home himself, to the beautiful glorious home that was waiting for him, and waits for us; and isn't it lovely to think how glad he'll be to see us when we come, and it may not be long, either. I can almost imagine how happy he is to-night, and I should hate to feel that we made him sad by sitting here and crying, as though we regretted his perfect joy. We miss him sadly indeed, but it will make our time of waiting seem shorter, if we busy ourselves in doing what we know he would have approved and enjoyed, had he stayed with us. You, my girls, know how proud and fond he was of you; you know just which of your little faults grieved him, so work to overcome them, and try to become the noble, splendid women he always prayed you might be. As for me, I know how he always trusted me in raising our girls, and now that he has gone home, and left it all to me, don't you suppose it is a duty made doubly precious? None of us can complain of idle hands, and so with busy hearts we can find no time to complain and weep. Now let's go to our morning work, and all be as happy and cheerful as you can; just remember, God loves us so much that He has put some one who is dear to us all in our home above, so that we cannot forget it, even if we are tempted to do so."

There was a general putting away of handkerchiefs, and many resolves written on the girlish faces, that were facing their first grief, and found it hard to do so with a patient faith. As they all left the room for morning duties, Bea lingered behind the others, and throwing her arms about her mother, looked up with full eyes and a loving smile. "Mama, you are such a comfort; you talk about heaven and papa, as if they were just around the corner, and make me feel as if he knew, and was interested in all that we did, just as much as ever. I know what will make him the happiest, and that is for us to be just like you, for he did love and trust you so perfectly."

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